Galvanised Iron

Sound echo's around his head like the inside of a rainwater tank. His spine displaces from his body. He feels vacant. A ghost. Only dripping water and galvanised iron exists. His skeleton sits on a stool across from him; staring. Bashfully it plays sad slide guitar. Its wobbly jaw falls off. No voice. Only blues and cold welling echoes. The inside of a rainwater tank. At the least of time. There is music!

Places I'd rather travel

Words are garbling around in my head cavity, but there are too many. Hard to make out what they're saying. Something about being born in Mexico, some place more exotic then here.. And another voice about learning. Learning, when I stop I'll pack my bags. Can't make out.......

Making out. I saw some people kiss on tv.

Rosie keeps telling me boys are bugging her.

I feel like I cannot let anybody know all the delicate old things my innards know. Like if these things were to escape they would rampage unknown. Treasures in black cloaks and buttons. Reeling.

At least I can write letters to you about it.

If you would like me to write you letters just send me a google map of your address like Ingrid here...

Pleather

"I simply gave up the whole idea of making pictures as figurative metaphors for extensions in time and space, " he (Allan Kaprow) said of his shift from being an "action painter" to an "action artist."

I had a pretty obvious realisation just then. Ok. So I enjoy art which comes under the category raw and punky.. You know, stuff with the guts to be a stick in the mud. I think the biggest draw card for this kind of art is that it reflects the actions and interests of real people.
Now. Imagine somebody getting a tattoo of a rose, donning some steal-caps, shaving their hair into a mohawk and wearing a pleather jacket overnight -  because they thought the look was cool. And on that note I'll draw a threw line to Sydney Fringe - Which our show Retinal Damage is happily a party. Can't wait. We're gonna rip it up!

The pavement is hard

He comes to a standstill at the bottom of a tall skyscraper. He is looking up. The weather is cold and the buildings of the city are sleeted. Laying at the base of the building with his feet touching the wall, he stares up into a black void sky. The pavement is hard. Shoes dart by his head. He is memorised by the space. Vertical lines  begin to burn into his retinas.  He realises that if he lays there long enough he might just begin to fall! A cold shiver. A church  bell rings. He gets up in a hurry and without knowing it his head skims the sky.

photo by Marianne Tankelevich

Moth Jam

Naomi and I just had our first jam / training session with Mothlight. So far, this is what we've made!

Spearmint Leaf

I know why.

Distractions.

"You don't remember in the morning as you kiss his closed eyes, watch them open, say how wonderful it is to watch somebody's eyes open, to be the first thing that they see. He says, Your mouth, Love, it's like a moth. A great soft moth thrumming against a windowpane in the house that I grew up in. But you swallow and ask what became of the boat. When you smile it is a boat, he says, and when you kiss it is a moth." (how a moth becomes a boat)

This. What kind of sweet? A Spearmint Leaf. Yummy but cutting. I don't think I've ever felt so satisfied. Slept so deeply. Woken so sad and unhinged. Other nights I'm more restless and we battle. "I love you Dear, but could you please move yonder."

Vertigo; Melbourne

Spoons are the best!

AGREED!

Buttons.. Bobs.. Blings.. Strings. Horns. Top hats. Skins of cats. Suitcase market, should be fun. Join in an hour. Button bum?